


don't stop

by Zekkass



Series: Cliffjumper Collared [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Anger Management, Bondage, Character Study, Collars, Fear Play, M/M, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 09:24:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8974045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zekkass/pseuds/Zekkass
Summary: Longarm Prime is, by Cliffjumper's estimate, a dope.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, zeenovos! :D Here is some exceedingly messed up Longarm/Cliffjumper collarfic, just for you~

First impressions hadn't been favorable: Longarm Prime reassigned him from field work to slagging secretary duty, a slight that still stings, especially when Longarm gives him genuine praise for the work he does.

Fists clenched, dentae gritted, temper tightly controlled or else he'll be reassigned somewhere even less important - 

Longarm Prime is, by Cliffjumper's estimate, a dope.

A dope capable of weaseling his way into Highbrow's office, past agents with centuries' more experience than his own. Bribes and aft-kisses were probably the reason he's got the cushy seat, capable of pulling Cliffjumper away from anywhere he could vent his tempers - 

So they have a history. Decades stretching into centuries of Cliffjumper practicing patience and file-sorting and call-taking and working late into the night to keep the wheels greased for Longarm.

Polite, strictly polite to each other. Longarm has a tendency of giving him the biggest, dopiest smile when he does well, when he's earned _praise_ \- 

All of Cliffjumper's fantasies involving Longarm Prime involve the ripping of limbs from frame and punching that face-plate until his pretty optics crack and shatter. He's not ashamed of his fantasies, and never will be.

One unremarkable day Longarm Prime walks in past his desk without that smile.

Cliffjumper's leaning on his elbow, tapping at his console as he works on a logistics problem for a couple of agents busy on Karthis I. It's raining outside, a soft sizzle sounding overhead as acid pelts the shields, creating brilliant flashes of red inside. The problem isn't pressing enough to keep him from looking out now and then to admire the light show, the way arcs of green lace over the sky and vermilion shafts reach down to touch buildings before dissipating.

One flash turns yellow-blue, surprising his optics, and he turns his head as Longarm comes down the hall, It's pure chance that has him looking in the right direction at the right moment: Longarm's face is a mask, the smile gone, optics cold, a rare moment of utter disdain.

"Sir?" Cliffjumper says, blinking, knowing it's a mistake as the word leaves his mouth. A signal to his superior that he's seen him without the show he likes everyone to see. Maybe he won't care, maybe he will - it's always a mistake to let power know that you're onto it.

"Ah, Cliffjumper," Longarm says, expression shifting into a knowing smile, a cheerful glint in his optics. There's the hint of threat, that little flare in his optics that says _I know you saw_ and instead of passing his desk and going into his office, a hand is placed on his desk, a hip leaned into it.

Cliffjumper automatically saves and closes out of his little problem, sitting straight at his desk and afraid.

Fear makes him angry.

"I don't think we'll do this in my office," Longarm says, reaching over with his arm going too-long as he taps the sequence into Cliffjumper's console that deactivates the cameras. "Privacy. Are you going to attack me?"

"Depends on what you do, sir," Cliffjumper says. "I'm not interested in your job, if that's what you're getting at."

"Just in an assignment," Longarm says, the light-show behind him flashing brilliant red again, and in that moment Cliffjumper would swear his jewel glows with an eerie light - but Longarm's fingers catch his chin and that's _it_ \- 

His fist is caught, then his other, and Longarm doesn't let him jump up, far too much strength in his limbs for how skinny they are.

"Just because I sit behind a desk doesn't mean I want to be bent over one, _sir._ Do you force all of the mechs who realize you had a hand in Highbrow's disappearance?"

A shot in the dark, and Longarm only smiles, still holding him steady as he twitches to lunge.

"I serve Cybertron to the fullest extent of my abilities," Longarm Prime says to him, leaning in close so they're optic to optic. "Can you say the same?"

"You _know_ I can't." Cliffjumper spits, trying to track where Longarm's taking this, unable to, angry.

"Not without my help," Longarm says, and he closes the gap, kissing him, angling his helm so their kibble won't interfere with the mingling of their lips and glossae and dentae - Cliffjumper tastes energon, charge jumping as Longarm nips back.

He's _dangerous_ and intent on damaging him through humiliation and submission so Cliffjumper won't ever dare to cross him again, and the sheer threat - has brought Cliffjumper's charge up, sensors online, anger pounding through him and making him feel _alive._

"You lose your head when you're facing enemy forces," Longarm says, tone calm and lecturing as he puts a knee up on the desk, binding Cliffjumper's wrists in one arm so he can touch his horns, hold his chin when Cliffjumper growls at him. "Even your name is a warning - but it's not that you're strictly reckless, oh no - it's that you need this, don't you? Your systems thrive on conflict. Put you into a combat simulator and your aim will improve under threat, your tactics, your strategy - not that you have the skillset for the latter, but I digress. _Talk_ to me, Cliffjumper, with your processors clear - "

"What are you really up to?" Cliffjumper asks, twitching as fingers work his sensitive horns and down his neck. "No one becomes the head of Intelligence just to serve Cybertron - not unless you're Highbrow. So _why_ do it?"

"I only want to improve our efficiency - "

"Don't lie to me!"

Longarm laughs and kisses him again. The charge makes it hard to focus, and the anger's - receding - but he forces it, forces his glare at Longarm to narrow, so he can really see what's going on.

What _is_ he - an overambitious construction 'bot? No. No way. A spy? He has the talent for it, but it's a fool's placement, too visible, too powerful, and frag, it's the easiest answer.

Cybertron, he'd said.

Say the word and he's dead, fed to the incinerator or worse. He can see it in Longarm's optics, and his hold on his limbs hasn't loosened for a micro-second.

"I fragging hate you," Cliffjumper says, fury blazing through him as he sees it all - Decepticon, Decepticon, _Decepticon_ pulling him from his job, putting him here, making him do _paperwork_ and endure his threats and the _only_ way he's been allowed to figure it out has been _because_ of where Longarm led him - his growl becomes a roar, and he tears his hands free (were they freed on purpose?) and leaps the desk, slamming Longarm into the window opposite them.

A moment and he's punching Longarm, knuckles crunching against metal and glass before he's caught, tangled in arms and legs and suddenly in Longarm's lap, legs held obscenely open before him.

Light flashes again, painting them both in red as Longarm extends one hand past his hip and up his chest, gently holding his neck and squeezing it.

"I'm terribly sorry," Longarm says, for a moment the mask on tightly as he smiles at him, field appeasing as he digs fingers into his protoform enough to dent metal. "You're going to accept a gift from me in exchange for your silence as to my motives."

Cliffjumper growls, jerking in his hold as Longarm's other hand snakes away from his knee to Longarm's side, digging inside a compartment he didn't know Longarm had before he pulls out a collar.

This is shown to him: it's primarily black, a sturdy band of some kind of alloy he _knows_ he won't be able to break, with a stripe of red ringing it, the exact shade of his paintjob. It could almost blend in with his design, except for how that red pulses gently, glowing in Longarm's hand.

Charge pulses through him, testing his self-control as he stares at that collar.

It goes around his neck, seals with a hiss and a click.

His optics dim briefly, spike panel opening, his engine revving with more than anger.

"I'd prefer your valve," Longarm says, hand snaking back down to grip his spike instead of his neck. It hurts, the way he pinches his spike - but it's good.

He's going to die if he crosses Longarm, but pleasure interferes with the anger, puts glitches into his systems - the good kind, the ones that herald the _best_ nights in the berth - yeah, his valve panel opens. Yeah, he moans as he's brought down onto Longarm's spike.

It's big. Too big he can't take more than its tip without squirming in discomfort, gasping softly in pain as Longarm slowly nudges further into him, pulling out briefly so he can adjust - and drip lubricants onto his spike, systems already priming him for a thorough fragging. He can't even _think_ like this, steam gusting from his vents, Longarm constricting around him, putting distinctive dents into his limbs as he's pulled back down on his spike, so caught he can't even squirm as Longarm's hands settle on his hips, ostensibly guiding him as he rides Longarm's spike.

Everything is red or yellow in flashes, the rain outside getting worse, the shields straining under the storm. Longarm's jewel gleams at him, lit with more than ambient light, and he can't move, can't speak, can't do anything but take - 

Textures drag against his valve, pressure and pain and brilliant sensation, a finger tracing over his spike, up and down, in and out - he screams, abruptly, overload crashing in so hard he crashes, the world going black.

//

Frame: intact. Desk: tidied. Dents: treated.

Cliffjumper puts a hand on his neck and traces the extent of the collar, shifts in his seat at his desk; his valve is still sore.

Proof that it happened, when he woke up at home and in his own berth. He'd come in to find that problem untangled and solved in his name, his systems safely closed and ready for him to come back.

He looks at the door of Longarm Prime's office for a long time before he gets back to work.

... Not like anything changes between them, now. Not really.

(He finds himself touching the collar during the day, fingers brushing its edges and finding the slight groove where the black gives way to that pulsing red light.)

(He finds himself thinking of Longarm's jewel, and the way it had glowed.)

"Good work," Longarm tells him when it's warranted, days later, and that smile becomes a slight smirk when he doesn't respond immediately.

A hand reaches out, stretches across his desk to ghost fingers over that collar.

Cliffjumper swallows, unable to ask.

"Again?" Longarm asks for him, tone gentle and mild; optics anything but.

Cliffjumper growls at him, but.

"Yes."


End file.
